


what follows the death of a star

by foolmetal



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drunken Confessions, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Lance (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolmetal/pseuds/foolmetal
Summary: Lance never thought he would be staring down the barrel of the rest of his life at the age of twenty-four, but it was all anyone ever wanted to talk about. Wasn’t it enough to be surrounded by his family, doing his small part to nurture the planet he called home? Why was everyone always trying to get him to leave? For the last five years, he’s been happy with the simple life.A drunken confession, a dangerous mission, and a little adrenaline could change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has been rattling around my brain cage since I marathon'd season 8 in one go. and because i'm me, fictional attachment issues abound, i just can't let anything go. so here we are. this story not fully written outside of my mindscape, but i'm aiming for weekly updates, so i hope you'll join me on this endeavor. much love to you all

It’s dark. There’s a pressure on his chest and something prodding at his cheek. Someone is calling his name, soft and feminine. Lance wants it to be her. He hasn’t dreamed of Allura in months. He’s starting to forget the sound of her voice.

“Lance,” it comes again, more frustrated this time. “Wake up, Uncle Lance.”

_Ah_ , Lance thinks, cracking open an eye. Straw prickles beneath his back. The barn’s lights swing overhead. Now that he’s awake, it’s not so dark at all. But judging by the position of the sun through the slats of the barn, it’ll be nightfall soon. Nadia crouches over him, a knee into his stomach.

“You fell asleep,” she accuses, twin pigtails swinging at her neck in disapproving motion. It’s cute she still wears her hair that way. Lance doesn’t want that to stop - it’ll make him feel old.

“No, _no_. Not asleep. I was just resting my eyes,” Lance lies, but Nadia is turning twelve tomorrow. She isn’t so easily tricked.

“It’s time to bring the cows in,” is all she says in response and helps Lance to his feet. Together, they haul open the heavy doors.

It’s kind of chilly for a night in late August. Lance, wearing a tank top under his overalls and nothing else, rubs at the goosebumps on his arms. Many of the cows are starting to wander in on their own, used to the routine, but others continue to graze even as the sun begins to set and need a gentle nudge.

“C’mon, girl,” Lance says to Kaltenecker who looks up at him with her big cow eyes. The two of them have an understanding. Even if there were a hundred cows lined up side by side, Lance could pick her out every time.

They take their time walking back to the barn, with Lance’s hand on her back. There’s no way to be sure how old she was when they plucked her from the space mall, but she seems to be slowing down these days. The thought of her not being able to get around with ease makes Lance sad.

He and Nadia get the cows situated and make sure they have enough hay and water. Then, Lance spends the better part of an hour grooming Kaltenecker, running the short, rubbery bristles of a massage brush through her fur in the way she likes.

“You know, you’re probably my best friend these days,” Lance tells Kaltenecker seriously, and she licks a stripe down his wrist. “Thanks. You know, Shiro’s getting married next month.”

Kaltenecker lets out a gentle moo, and Lance imagines her responding. _Oh? The Black Paladin?_

“Yeah, it was a surprise to me too. I mean, I didn’t know they were engaged until I got the Save the Date. Must have happened fast.”

Curtis was nice, and he and Shiro complimented each other well, both mild-mannered and intelligent. Every time Lance saw Shiro in the past few years, he seemed lighter, laughing more easily. He suspected Curtis had a lot to do with that.

Lance sets the brush aside, and Kaltenecker lies down, legs folding beneath her sturdy form. He sits down too and rests his head against her.

“Nadia will get mad if I fall asleep again,” he murmurs, already feeling his eyes grow heavy. His mind returns to weddings and futures. “I bet Hunk and Shay will get engaged soon. And then Keith, Pidge, and I will get to fight over who can stay single the longest.” Honestly, they all seemed equally hopeless in the romance department, but Lance didn’t think any of them were particularly bothered by it.

Kaltenecker gives a heavy sigh, her back shuddering under him.

“You miss them?” he asks, and Kaltenecker moos softly. “Yeah, me too. I wonder what they’d say if I brought you as my plus one.”

“Aunty Rachel was right,” comes Nadia’s voice from above. She’s standing on the lowest rail of Kaltenecker’s pen, her chin propped on the highest. Lance thought she went inside long ago. “You _do_ need a girlfriend.”

Lance’s lips quirk up, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Come on now. You know Kaltenecker is the only girl for me.”

Nadia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A boyfriend then.”

And Lance, being the mature adult that he is, sticks out his tongue.

 

* * *

 

Lance rummages through the kitchen cabinet, tossing aside coffee filters, a broken whisk, a pack of dry erase markers, two AA batteries, and everything _besides_ the matches he’s looking for.

The chair beneath his feet shifts slightly, and Lance topples, hands slapping to the counter to keep from falling over.

“Oops,” says Veronica from behind him, carrying a stack of dishes, but she doesn’t sound remotely sorry.

“Watch it,” he says back. It comes out with more vitriol than he intended, but Veronica has been glaring at him all night, ever since she got in from her trip, shoulder checking him around every corner, and Lance is tired of it. _What did I do?_

“Here,” says his brother, resting a hand on Lance’s shoulder and holding out a small rectangle of plastic. “Just use my lighter.”

“ _Luis! Are you smoking again?_ ” shouts Lance’s mother from the other room, ears like a bat.

“No, Mama!” Luis balks, sliding the Zippo back into his pocket with a whispered, “ _Shit_.”

“Aha,” Rachel says, elbows deep in the bottom drawer of their abuela’s sewing desk, yanking out a pack of matches from where it’s been tangled in a clump of yarn.

“I’m living with hoarders,” Lance mutters. He steps down from the chair and tosses the broken whisk into the trash where it belongs. “This is what hoarding looks like.”

Their little home doesn’t house as many people as it once did - only Lance, Rachel, and their parents lived here now. Marco, Lisa, Sylvio, and Nadia had a house right across the pasture out back. And Luis moved into the city with his wife a few months ago, still close enough to visit often.

But despite less people occupying the space, it’s still just as cluttered as it was back when Lance was growing up. Only now, after years of living in the Garrison where tidiness was enforced and then living in the castleship which was as downright minimalistic as a _palace_ could be, the mess makes him feel crazier.

“Grab forks, will you?” Rachel asks, ignoring him, and Lance complies, snatching a handful from the silverware drawer.

“Hey,” he says to Sylvio who is sitting at the island, nose pressed into the pages of a book. “We’re about to cut the cake, kiddo.”

“Uncle Lance,” Sylvio whines. “Just one more page. I’m almost done.”

He can’t fault the kid’s enthusiasm. Sylvio had officially caught the space bug, just as Veronica and Lance did before him, and earlier in the summer - under Lance’s tutelage of course - he passed the difficult entrance exam to the Galaxy Garrison. By this time next month, that’s where he would be.

“You said that an hour ago, nerd.”

He plucks the book from Sylvio’s grasp and carries it high above his head, Sylvio jumping at his heels all the way to the dining room.

Streamers cover every square inch of the ceiling space, and confetti litters the table. Everyone in the room is wearing a party hat, even the dog. The McClains always did birthdays big, and that wouldn’t change anytime soon.

Nadia sits at the head of the table, wriggling pleasantly at the attention. First comes cake and ice cream, then presents, which Lance is particularly excited about this year. He got Nadia a prototype of the Mercury Gameflux III - being a former Paladin had its perks - and he’s excited to try it out together. Earth is rebuilding, slowly, and the new technology being produced is evidence of that.

Veronica brings out the cake from where it’s been thawing on the counter and takes off the lid to display its unique color and design, a style that Lance recognizes immediately.

“Is that…”

“Hunk dropped it off at the Garrison last week,” Veronica deadpans, making direct eye contact, still glaring. “He came to get his tux fitted for Shiro’s wedding.”

“I-I didn’t know,” Lance stutters, putting a hand up between them to shield his eyes, as if that would make Veronica disappear.

“That’s  _funny_ . Because he told me he sent you a message about it.” _Crap._ “A message you never responded to.”

Someone flips the light switch, and the room is bathed in the glow of twelve tiny candles, Nadia’s radiant smile floating above them. They all begin to sing, first in Spanish, then in English, and Lance goes through the motions.

_Uncle Lance! Guess what!_ Nadia said to him earlier that morning, flopping on his back as he lay in bed.

As the air whooshed out of his lungs, part of him wanted to tell her that she was getting too old for this, but a larger part of him still relished these moments of childlike enthusiasm.

_I’m half as old as you now,_ she proclaimed, and she was right. Lance thought back to his twelve-year-old self, twelve long years ago, and could hardly liken the boy he’d been then to the man he had become.

Lance had experienced more in a decade than many would in a lifetime. So many things had changed. After the war, he’d dedicated himself to spreading Allura’s message of peace, but there were days it felt like a pale imitation of the woman he’d loved. She was always so much better than him at inspiring others.

But tonight, Lance watches Nadia’s poised lips, the unspoken wish flickering through her eyes in time with the candles’ flames. And with all of Nadia’s years ahead of her, Lance thinks, _Make it a good one_.

When the lights come back on, the spell is broken, and Veronica launches right back into her tirade. She holds onto the back of his shirt, won’t let him escape.

“I asked Pidge when she heard from you last.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Sometimes I lose track of my phone.” In actuality, Lance’s cell is probably sitting under his bed, gathering dust. He doesn’t charge it unless he’s traveling off the ranch, which happens with less and less frequency.

“I’m not the one you should apologize to.”

“Ooh, Uncle Lance!” Nadia exclaims suddenly, prompting Veronica to let go of him. “Thank you!” She’s already impatiently abandoned a half-eaten slice of Hunk’s cake in favor of presents and holds the unwrapped Gameflux in her hands.

“Nadia, finish your dessert first,” Marco scolds his daughter half-heartedly.

“Can you play DDR on this?” she asks, and Lance smiles, glad he made the right purchase.

“Open the next box.”

Once Nadia tears into the new game and floor pad, Lance tries to make a quiet exit down the hall, but of course, Veronica is following him.

“I know why you’re avoiding them,” she says, trailing him up the stairs, all the way into his bedroom. It’s still decorated just like it was through his childhood. Walls painted ocean-blue, ceiling a swirl of midnight black and purple, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars. His mother is an artist, and she wanted all her children to go to bed, already staring up into their dreams.

“Let’s not fight tonight,” he tries to reason. “Think of Nadia.”

“Don’t drag Nadia into this. I know you’re worried that your friends will try to pull you away from home.”

Veronica couldn’t possibly understand all of Lance’s strange anxieties around anything that has to do with his time as a paladin. He can barely comprehend them himself. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “You’re not as complicated as you think, Lance. And I’m willing to bet that what worries you most is that you’ll be tempted to accept their offers.”

“For the last time,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “I’m not taking a teaching position at the Garrison.”

Veronica holds up placating hands. “If that’s what you really want.”

“It is.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to visit your friends. Grab a coffee with Shiro once in a while. Check out Pidge’s lab. Help Hunk in the space kitchen for a few weeks. The farm will be here when you get back.”

Lance sighs and sits down on his bed, springs creaking beneath his weight. “I know you think I’m a screw up.”

“Lance. Why would I ever think that? You saved the _universe_.”

_I didn’t. Not really. Not in the end._ And this, Lance truly believes. _It was her, always her._

“More importantly, you’re my brother. I’ll always have faith in you. I just want you to be happy.”

“So I can’t be happy unless I follow in your footsteps?” he bites and immediately regrets it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Veronica must know that, but she crosses her arms and doesn’t sit, looming over him. “I gave you time, we all did. Because you were mourning, I get it. It’s just...hard for me to believe that the same kid who begged me to teach him how to use a telescope before he learned how to read or ride a bike would want to spend the rest of his life _grounded._ ”

And there it is. Lance never thought he would be staring down the barrel of _the rest of his life_ at the age of twenty-four, but it was all anyone ever wanted to talk about. Wasn’t it enough to be surrounded by his family, doing his small part to nurture the planet he called home? Why was everyone always trying to get him to leave? For the last five years, he’s been happy with the simple life. He _is_ happy. Why will no one believe him?

Lance’s father was going to school for engineering when he met Lance’s mother, his future wife. She was beautiful, funny, and an outrageously good cook. He fell in love instantly, and their romance was a whirlwind of study dates, stolen kisses, and midnight strolls through the campus square. Their first summer break spent apart was misery, so in the fall, he proposed they never be separated again.

When she told him about her parents’ ranch, her father’s bad back, and her desire to help out, he switched his discipline from aerospace to agricultural instead. Because that’s what you do when you meet the love of your life; you cast your gaze from the skies to the ground. You abandon your research on jet engines and propulsion, and find a passion for irrigation along the way. You get a ring and make a promise.

You move to the family farm.

And when the love of your life dies? Lance found himself doing the same.

He brushed off the old desires of piloting fame, things he already achieved, and told himself, _It was just the glory I was after_. And of that, Lance had his fill. Parades and shows and crowds, razzling and dazzling. He basked and soaked and drank up every last drop. Glory kept him satisfied then, but the cost was too high. It wouldn’t do him any kindness now.

“We used to lie in the grass outside looking for the Andromeda Galaxy. We spent hours out there, even when it was cold.” Veronica says, voice soft and wistful. “Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do,” says Lance. On one of those occasions, he came down with a terrible cough that settled deep inside his lungs. His mom was so angry, but Veronica took all the blame because she was his older sister. And because she loved him.

“So what, now you’re sick of it? Been there, done that?”

And man, that does sound like something he would say. “I’ll always have a special place in my heart for space exploration,” Lance settles on carefully. “But I like being here. So much was destroyed by the Galra. Crops, wildlife, things that so many people need to survive. It makes running this farm that much harder and that much more important.”

Veronica hums thoughtfully. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.” He wonders which member of their family she’s talking about. “Okay, fine. But Lance, seriously? Call your friends.”

That much, Lance can probably do.

 

* * *

 

A retro pop ballad blasts over the speakers. Twinkle lights circle every table and tent, the pop-up bar, and the DJ stand. The party is in full swing, and Lance sits alone, nursing a half-drunken glass of champagne. He smiles, watching Hunk spin Pidge in the grass until she gets dizzy.

Coran approaches him with a goblet full of what looks like nunvill, and if that isn’t a taste memory Lance would rather forget. Did he bring his own from Altea? How many hapless souls had he offered it to already?

“You’re quiet tonight, lad,” Coran says, resting a parental hand on his shoulder. He’s gotten a little white hair in the temples, but other than that, he’s the same lovable uncle that he ever was.

“Just a little sleepy. We were up late last night.”

When they offered to throw him a Bachelor party, Shiro requested something lowkey, so they took him out for drinks and karaoke - Pidge, Hunk, Lance, Coran, Matt, Curtis’s three siblings, and the fiances. Afterwards, the four former Paladins had stayed up chatting and playing video games. It was always good to see them again, but it made Lance sad too. He found himself missing their company, even in their presence.

Keith wasn’t able to make it to the Bachelor events, stuck wrapping up some mission or other. He flew in this morning, frazzled, taking his duties as best man a little too seriously until both Lance and the groom himself had to talk him off the ledge. It was sweet, how he and Shiro cared for each other. They all wanted things to go well for their former leader and friend, but Shiro didn’t have any lofty expectations. At the end of the day, he just wanted to get married, surrounded by the most important people in his life.

You wouldn’t know of Keith’s near-meltdown looking at him now. He makes a sharp figure in a well-fitted suit, conversing politely with members of the Garrison. Lance’s eyes keep catching on his ponytail, the hair woven into a braid and held together with a red ribbon. It’s a strange thing to fixate on, but maybe it’s just muscle memory at this point, after years of making jokes at the expense of Keith’s hairdo. Compared to the mullet, this look is a drastic improvement. In Lance’s purely objective point of view.

“Ah, yes. A very interesting Earthling tradition. I rather enjoyed myself,” Coran says, taking a long swig of his beverage. Lance winces to recount the horrors Coran unleashed on the microphone and surrounding patrons.

Hours later, Lance finds himself seated at the corner of the bar, Hunk to his right and Pidge to his left with Keith next to her. The newlyweds already said their goodbyes, and the festivities are dying down, but many guests still linger. That’s the mark of a good party, Lance thinks. When even after emotional toasts and food and dancing, no one is willing for it to be over.

The DJ packed up his equipment and left, but James Griffin of all people and Ryan Kinkade trade a guitar back and forth, strumming simple, yet ambient melodies. Coran keeps trying to talk them into giving him a go. Leifsdottir sits facedown at the table, asleep.

Hunk is telling them the story of a particularly difficult mediation between the Drazans and Xelnebs over a late shipment of goods that nearly sabotaged the former’s hallowed Clear Day.

“Man, I feel like I’ll never completely get that song out of my head. Right, Keith?” Hunk says, speaking of the ride they were both trapped on. But Keith is silent, eyes glazed over, lips curled into a small smile.

“Hey, Space Cadet,” Lance says, snapping his fingers in front of his friend’s nose. “Earth to Keith.”

“Whaz’at?” Keith slurs slightly. “Sorry, not paying attention.”

“He’s drunk,” Pidge says, going for his glass of whiskey that he lifts easily out of her reach with an unconvincing, _Am not_ , and then motions to the bartender for another.

“You okay, Keith?” Lance asks because someone should, and Keith bobs his head.

“All good. Just...happy. For Shiro. And, uh, it’s nice to be together.”

Lance softens. Coming from Keith, the observation is uncharacteristically sentimental, and they all nod in agreement.

“So,” Hunk says, changing the subject from himself, “how is the dating pool these days? Are all the ladies still trying to get a piece of Loverboy Lance?” he teases, and Lance gives an exaggerated groan.

“My sister is unbelievable. It’s like, I get it, Rachel. You’re head over heels. She’s all, _Sanjay this_ and _Sanjay that_ .” And in the fashion of those who suddenly find themselves in incredible, committed relationships, Rachel has made it her mission to play matchmaker for everyone in the near vicinity. She wants them to be as happy as she is. “Just because she found _the one_ doesn’t mean I have to. I’m done with dating. No more.”

“That’s the spirit.” Pidge, who is too busy molding young minds to consider such frivolous things, clinks her glass against Lance’s bottle. “But speaking of love, I’m going to go find Matt. He’s been weirdly emotional all day. I think a tiny part of him has been carrying a torch for Shiro since Kerberos.”

“Haven’t we all?” Lance drawls, taking a languid sip of his beer, and Pidge scrunches her nose.

“Ew, no. Gross.”

She walks away, and Keith moves over to her seat, his hand brushing against Lance’s bare forearm from where he’s shucked the suit jacket and bunched up his shirt sleeves.

“Come on. Hunk?”

Hunk shakes his head. “Sure, I’ve always admired Shiro, but I’m with Pidge on this one.”

Lance waives off these blatant _lies_. “I refuse to believe that anyone who sees Shiro in a tight shirt doesn’t fall under the spell of his biceps instantly.”

This brings Hunk into a fit of giggles that only stop when he starts coughing and has to take a slurp of his ginger ale. “I think it was just you.”

“Keith,” says Lance solemnly, still undeterred. “Back me up.”

But Keith, pink in the face, turns his head and downs his shot in a single gulp. He firmly sets the glass down on the bartop.

“That was a yes,” Lance asserts, and Keith continues to avoid his gaze. Definitely a yes.

It’s not like Shiro doesn’t deserve it, beautiful inside and out. And it’s easy to see where he gets it from. Aunt Ai, who had raised Shiro most of his life, was there to assist in wedding preparations. During Shiro’s youth, she had been a counselor at a school for the disabled. Unfortunately, the school had been destroyed during the war, but in the years she was displaced, Ai began to practice mind and body therapy for those who had been through traumatic events, and her entire demeanor exuded peace.

_Shiro, I think I’m in love with your aunt_ , Lance told him, only half-joking, and received slaps from both and Pidge and Matt on the back of the head.

They dip into a comfortable silence, and Lance finds his ears drawn to the chirp of crickets, a gentle lullaby. So many simple wonders he took for granted before leaving Earth. Since returning, Lance tries to cherish them all.

“How’s the ranch?” Keith says, distracting Lance from his inner musings. Both the question and person asking it surprises him. Among his circle of friends, Lance’s day-to-day is comparatively dull.

“Same as ever.” Lance shrugs. “We had a great yield on crops this year which is a good sign that the soil is recovering from extraterrestrial pollution. Lots of corn, lots of sugarcane. All the good stuff.”

Keith nods like he’s interested and also coherent enough to follow the conversation, neither of which Lance can be sure. “I heard Mrs. Holt say you were cross pollinating juniberry flowers.”

“That’s more of a Rachel project, but yeah. We’ve already got some new colors going.” Through a selective pollination process, they’ve been able to produce flowers in varying shades of purple, pink, and even red. It was nice, but Lance felt oddly protective of the juniberries. Why mess with a beautiful thing?

“Kinkade is, like, super enthusiastic about it.” The pilot had cornered Lance during cocktail hour, right after the ceremony when they were supposed to be taking photos, and wouldn’t let him go until Lance was able to pass him off to Colleen.

“That’s neat,” Keith tells him and seems sincere. “Though I think I slept through most of my botany course.”

Lance chuckles. “Same. Oh, by the way, Kaltenecker is still doing well, and she misses you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Keith hides his grin behind the rim of another glass, and where do these drinks keep coming from? Lance should probably cut him off. “She probably barely remembers us.”

“She does! She misses all of you. She told me herself.”

Hunk lets out a gentle breath beside them. His head is turned the other way, pillowed by his arms, but Lance shared a room with him for a long time and knows Hunk’s body language; he doesn’t think Hunk is actually asleep. And he’s probably laughing at them.

“What else?” Keith asks, and Lance talks about his family. About Marco and the kids, Sylvio starting his studies at the Garrison. About Luis opening a veterinary clinic with his wife and not being able to dedicate as much time to their farm. About Rachel and her new boyfriend.

“It sounds like Rachel...means well,” Keith says slowly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay.”

“And if I’m never ready?”

Keith is quiet for a moment. Lance watches the twinkle lights dance over his face, casting shadows under his bangs. “That’s okay too.”

Loverboy Lance was always a caricature, but one of Lance’s defining features nonetheless. It made sense why so many of the people in his life would be curious about that aspect of his future. Lance could still pretend to be suave and slick, but the mask didn’t fit as well as it once had. It made him self-conscious, so Keith’s affirmation was comforting.

“I’m not exactly an exciting catch these days,” he cracks a joke at his own expense to lighten the mood. Familiar territory.

Unexpectedly, Keith frowns. “Don’t say that. You have a lot to offer.” The words mirror ones he’s said long ago, atop the Black lion, watching the sun set over the desert sand.

“Right.”

“I mean it,” Keith insists. “You’re strong and loyal and hardworking. You have a great family, and you love them so much. That’s what Allura saw in you.” Lance feels his heart twist at the mention of her name, a rag wrung out between the hands of Lance’s past. They usually only did that once a year, sitting around a candlelit table at the base of Allura’s statue on Altea, commemorating the fallen member of their makeshift family. And even that much could be painful.

Then, as if it’s an afterthought, Keith says, “That’s why I had a crush on you.”

It takes Lance an inordinate amount of time to process such a small yet loaded sentence.

“ _What?_ ”

“...what?”

“G-go back. Say that again.”

“You have a lot to offer-”

“Not that!” Lance shouts, waving his hands frantically. “The other part! About you having a crush!” _On me!_ goes unsaid, but it runs dizzying laps around his head.

Keith blinks slowly. “I said that?”

_Quiznack_ , Keith! Lance was never letting him touch another drop of alcohol ever again. “Yes! Yes, you did!”

“I...don’t think I meant to say that.”

“W-well, if wishes were horses,” Lance says, mouth moving separately from his mind, spouting nonsense.

“What does that mean? Is that a farming thing?”

Lance has no idea. He doesn’t even remember the rest of the phrase. “It means you said it. No takesies backsies.” His faces feels hot enough to catch fire, to ignite all the liquor at the bar and set the whole reception ablaze.

“I guess I did,” Keith finally says, unreasonably calm.

Lance has so many questions. Like _why_ ? and _how_ ? and _why didn’t you tell me_? But the one he settles on is, “When?”

Keith taps the bartop with the fingers of his right hand, the one next to Lance, and Lance fights the urge to slap them. “After you said we made a good team. Maybe. It was a long time ago.”

It was a _long_ time ago, Lance is shocked to hear. Almost as long as they’ve known each other. And all the while?

“You were just always...around,” Keith continues. “Always giving me so much attention. I wasn’t used to that. I was used to being ignored.”

“Keith.”

Keith shakes his head, braid sliding off his shoulder and down his back “It’s okay. They faded. The feelings.” His phrasing is stilted, awkward. “I went away, and when I came back, you and Allura...it was good. You both deserved that and more.”

Lance stares at him, can’t stop staring, as if Keith and his words are the gossamer curtain of a dream, one that at any moment he could tear through with a single breath. Lance can’t even be sure he wants to.

Keith squirms under his gaze. “Look, it’s not a big deal.”

“Sure, okay,” Lance says, his voice pinched high in the telltale tone of evasion.

It’s a _huge_ deal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm realizing that this story is going to be, like...85% heartfelt conversations. whoops. hope that is okay. thank you to all who read, kudos'd, and commented. it means a lot, and i look forward to sharing more!

“Lance.”

Romelle speaks in a scolding tone, not unlike Allura in the early days, in that blissful time before she loved him. When she was safe, and he was an over-eager pain in the neck. “The pot is boiling over.”

Lance snaps out of his thoughts. Romelle is right. Frothy liquid spills up and through the seam between the pot and its lid. He panics, grabbing at the lid and fanning it over the bubbles, ignoring the steam that scalds his knuckles, watching as they begin to recede.

“Take it off the heat,” she instructs, and he does, contents sloshing.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s all right,” says Romelle. She brandishes a sharp utensil and pokes experimentally at the starchy root vegetables floating inside. Lance always thought her to be overly anxious, like Hunk in a way, but she’s calm and patient here. He supposes that things change when one’s life and the life of their people is no longer under threat.

They’re good, she tells him - the strange, green potatoes he was tasked with. A little soft but still salvageable, go ahead and drain them. He reaches for the colander.

It still catches Lance off guard, every time his eyes glance the window, and it’s the expanse of space that greets him instead of Earth’s blue skies. The air of Hunk’s cruiser has that dry, filtered taste, and the gravity generated is different too, just slightly, but enough to notice. He’s not as grounded here, in more ways than one.

Hunk comes in to check on things, clapping Lance on the back, tasting ingredients and humming to himself. They’re catering a dinner for members of the Galactic Alliance, and Lance gets the idea that it’s kind of a big deal. He should probably be paying better attention. The green starch he’s mashing reminds him of food goo.

Lance has...a difficult time being in space, and that extends to being around people he knew from his time as a paladin. It makes certain memories too fresh, too accessible, pressing hot coals over scar tissue that had only just healed, having to repeat the process over and over.

And that’s not like him. He used to be someone who actively collected reminders in the shape of souvenirs. Someone who photographed every special moment and filled scrapbooks with family vacations, long days at the beach, and holiday cheer. He picked his favorite shots and plastered them on his walls.

Someday, maybe Lance will be able to look back on all of the memories made without that pang of grief. The ouroboros of regret wrapped around his heart, scales sharp, made of glass, swallowing its tail, ever-constricting.

Yeah, someday.

Sal comes in with a cart, and they start loading it with appetizers, canapés topped with savory spreads and rolls of bread stuffed with herbs and cheese, except the cheese is purple and not really cheese at all. All of these foods have _names_ , but it’s easier for Lance to contextualize based on what he knows. Space potatoes, alien bread, and intergalactic cheese.

Lance helps him wheel it out to the banquet room, where two dozen or so planetary leaders have gathered. Among them, Lance identifies an Arusian, a Balmeran who may or may not be related to Shay, and at the far end of the table, Krolia and Kolivan.

Lance stumbles, jostling the metal cart. It’s not enough to cause any food casualties, but several heads turn in his direction, and Lance finds himself making aggressively awkward eye contact with Keith’s mom. Her expression is characteristically blank though not unkind. She recognizes him. Lance can’t bring his traitorous eyes to look away until Sal grunts and sets a plate in his hands.

The appetizers are served, all the while Lance has a heated debate with himself. Does he acknowledge that he knows them? Or is that unprofessional? Maybe they don’t want to be disturbed, but no one is talking. Why is no one talking?

When he sets a bowl of bread down in front of Kolivan, the large Galra looks up, pupiless eyes unblinking, and Lance cracks.

“Hey, Kolivan. My man. Long time, no see.”

Kolivan says nothing in return, but his head does tilt forward in something akin to a nod. Lance wants nothing more than to get sucked out the nearest airlock.

Then, Hunk - sweet, merciful Hunk - bounds in with an introductory speech and a description of each course. The distraction allows Lance to slink into the corner.

Hunk is good at this, Lance realizes. Incredibly good, not just as a chef, but also as a leader. And Lance always knew that Hunk was solid foundation, a steady leg under the weight of Voltron, but here, he’s built a veritable empire out of nothing but the love in his heart. He brings people together, from all over the universe, and they look to him for guidance.

Back in the kitchen, Lance sits on the counter, watching Shay inject whipped cream into puffed dough. Her specialty is dessert, according to Hunk, who brags about only his friends and never himself.

“Do you want a taste?” Shay smiles, and it’s easy to see why Hunk loves her so much, why they make such a good pair. Their values and goals are the same, and on their faces, they wear the same, open compassion.

Lance accepts an extended spoon and allows the filling to melt on his tongue. It’s sugary but not overly so. There’s a bit of citrus added, something like lemon. She tells him that the acid cuts through the sweetness but also balances and enhances the flavor. And, Lance thinks, that’s life.

Hunk checks on him later, and he’s lying down on the counter now, legs dangling over the edge.

“You know, if you weren’t one of my best friends, I would tell you that’s probably a food safety violation.”

Lance peeks up at him, gives a wry smile. “Are you gonna tell the boss to fire me?”

“I think you’ll get off with a warning this time,” Hunk says, and Lance allows himself to be pulled up into the cocoon of his broad arms. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m proud of you,” says Lance, chin propped on Hunk’s shoulder. “You know that?”

“Aw, thanks, buddy.”

“Seriously, Hunk, what you’ve built...it’s incredible.” Having a passion is one thing, but a calling is another, and Hunk has found the perfect intersection between the two.

“That means a lot. And I appreciate your help. Everything you made turned out great.”

“I was just following your recipes.”

They pull apart, Hunk hands him a towel, and they work together at polishing the metal counters until they gleam.

There are a number of reasons why Lance finds himself cleaning a kitchen in the depths of outer space. Getting Veronica off his back is one. The guilt he feels about the canyon he’s slowly carved between himself and his friends for the past five years is another. But there’s a third reason, one that twists nervously beneath his stomach, upsetting his insides.

“Hunk,” he tests aloud, and there’s something in his tone that gives Hunk pause. The scrubbing stops. “Do you remember, after Shiro’s wedding, when we were talking about relationships. You, and Pidge, and Keith, and me. Did you…” and he hates the edge of need in his voice, “Did you hear-”

“Lance,” Hunk says. Lance stares at his back, the width of his stern shoulders. “Is this really something you should be talking about with _me_?”

If Lance was trying to kill the sensation inside his gut, or put it to rest at the very least, it’s backfired, spinning into overdrive. Hunk heard, Hunk _knows_.

“Maybe not,” he swallows. Because if Lance were braver, he would be talking to the person at the center of this mess. The boy who dropped the bomb and let the shrapnel fly, particles of dust, rock, and long-hidden feeling. Who looked at the crater it left behind and said it was _no big deal._

“I was wondering when you were going to bring it up,” Hunk says, and Lance has been flying around with Hunk for eight quintants now. He’s honestly impressed at his own restraint.

“So you did hear.”

Hunk turns toward him, scratching at his stubble, pondering his next course of action. “To be honest, Lance...I’ve actually known for a while.”

There it is again. _A while_. “You’re going to have to be more specific, man. Because I’m confused enough as is, and if you didn’t notice I’m about this,” Lance holds up the space of an inch between his finger and thumb, “close to losing my mind.”

Hunk exhales. “It came up a couple years ago." Lance isn’t surprised that his friends talk about him behind his back, especially now, but he is surprised that Keith would confide in Hunk about something like this. And even more amazed that Hunk would go  _years_  without spilling the beans. "I didn’t say anything because he told me not to, and I respected that.”

“I don’t even think _Keith_ wanted to tell me. We were all drinking, and it just slipped out.” Lance recalls his eyes, shiny, and cheeks flushed from liquor. “But after it happened, he acted like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t supposed to care.”

“And do you?” Hunk asks.

“Do I what?”

“Care.”

What kind of question is that? Of course. Of course he cares. But how or to what extent, he isn’t sure. There are just so many layers. Keith feeling the way he did, keeping himself closed off for years. Hiding things from Lance. Watching Lance and Allura, saying nothing. Years afterward, admitting it to Hunk and god knows who else, swearing him to secrecy. And when Lance _finally_ finds out, it’s under the most dubious of circumstances.

If it wasn’t for that night, the air of sentimentality and aid of alcohol, was Keith ever going to tell him? Was he going to see Lance once or twice a year, every year until the end, saying nothing? To carry this unspoken thing to his grave?

It just...it bothers him. It bothers him more than he’s willing to acknowledge aloud. So in the absence of the right words, he nods.

“Then you’re going to have to sit down and discuss it with him,” Hunk says.

“Crazy talk.”

“Lance,” his name comes out in a long-suffering sigh, “I’m serious.”

“Uh, yeah, so am I. Dead serious. As in, I _will_ die of embarrassment, and my blood will be on your hands,” says Lance, overexcited, overwhelmed. Once he gets going, few things can stop him. “Keith’s hands too. And Pidge. I don’t know if she’s done anything, but I can’t leave her out. She’ll probably want the credit.”

Hunk holds up a hand, pointer finger extended. “Okay, first, friends don’t implicate friends in their deaths. Not cool, buddy.”

“Well, if the shoe fits…”

“And _second_ , if you’re not going to talk to him, what exactly _are_ you planning to do?”

“To ignore it. Obviously,” Lance says, but he can’t even convince himself that’s true. He’s not good at ignoring things, not his siblings’ taunts or his inferiority complex, and least of all Keith. At the Garrison, in space, and beyond. Of Keith, Lance has always been undeniably _aware._

Hunk frowns. “If you were going to ignore it, then you wouldn’t be mentioning it to me.”

He’s got a point, Lance will give him that. A sharp, pointed stick, good for gouging. “Fine. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know if what I’m looking for is advice. I just had to make sure I wasn’t going completely insane.”

“No more than usual,” Hunk ribs gently, and Lance feels his lips wobble into something resembling a smile. “You know I’m always here for you. I’ll always be willing to help in whatever way I can, but for this…I made a promise. It’s not my place.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, guilty of putting Hunk in such an awkward position. He’s a jerk. “I’m a jerk.”

“You’re not. Let me just ask you this. What if Romelle confessed that she’s been crushing on you since our flight back to Earth?”

“ _What?!_ ” Lance exclaims, eyes darting frantically around the room to make sure the Altean isn’t present. “She hasn’t! Has she?”

Hunk waves his hand. “Purely hypothetical.”

“Hunk, she is literally on this ship, and could be within earshot. Are you nuts?"

“Maybe that was a bad example. But what if she did? Or...Nyma? Or James Griffin? Would your reaction be the same?”

“No,” Lance says on instinct, barely needing time to think it over. Sure, he would be flattered, but, “This is different.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s _Keith_ ,” he blurts, bewildered.

It’s Keith, their teammate, and for a time, their _leader_. Lance thought he spent years learning Keith like a hotheaded flight manual, scrutinizing his skills at piloting speeders, simulators, and two robot lions. Gathering his weak points to use against him in competition, and then becoming friends, turning it around, using them to find methods of encouragement instead.

So discovering this crucial piece of information, this late in the game...it blindsides him.

Hunk grants him the sage incline of his neck. “That’s somewhere to start.”

And Lance, who has been riding so hard on dizzying emotion that his wheels are spun out, bike chain snapped, brain stalled somewhere between thanks and an expletive, says, “Fuck you.”

Hunk, always understanding, wraps him into another hug. “You’re welcome.”

The rest of their engagement with the Galactic Alliance goes off without a hitch. Somehow, Lance is able to push the distracting thoughts aside, focusing instead on chopping and stirring and spicing. There’s a rhythm to it, a certain mindlessness to the little tasks, like farm work in a way, but less physically intensive. It’s therapeutic. And Lance manages to only slice his finger open once. The space cheese grater was out to get him from the start.

He makes garlic knots for Hunk’s crew as an apology for the uncomfortable conversation, and they’re a hit. Romelle eats at least twenty of them and gives herself a stomachache. Shay presents him with a box of flaky, pink pastries to take home. They taste like cinnamon.

Hunk has another appointment, and it’s a decent distance away, so Lance makes arrangements to hop a cargo ship en route to Earth. He’s standing on the loading dock with other members of the Galactic Alliance who are also packing to depart, bags strapped to his back, making polite conversation with the friendly Arusian, when Krolia approaches him.

“May I have a moment with the Red Paladin?” she asks, and Lance isn’t used to people calling him that anymore. The Arusian gives them space.

“Hey, Krolia,” he greets her apprehensively. They never had much of a rapport, even after traveling together in space for a time.

“Hello,” she says, and though Lance has grown a few inches, she still stands taller, intimidating. “Are you returning to Earth?”

“Yep, going home. And you?” he asks because it’s polite.

“Headquarters.”

“Well, have a safe journey.”

“Lance,” she says, and it’s maybe the first time Lance has heard her use his name. Krolia is a woman of few words, just like Keith, but that makes every one of them significant. “Call my son. He worries about you.”

It takes a full Spicolian movement to return to Earth, and Krolia’s command plays in the back of Lance’s mind the entire time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, hey. i promise this is the last chapter that Lance and Keith will be apart. thank you to all who are reading!

His next stop on the Veronica-mandated tour of apology is the Galaxy Garrison. Lance tries to keep a low profile, but even walking around outside, he feels exposed. Like everyone’s eyes are on him, humans and aliens alike, turning and whispering to their companions. He keeps his head down, shoulders hunched under his jacket. Once, this kind of attention would have appealed to his pride, but that time has years-since expired. 

Flying in, Lance couldn’t help but gaze at the architecture of this city, materials both familiar and foreign. Earth has been slowly rebuilding post-war, but in many ways, it’s a different creation altogether. When the destroyed limbs were regenerated, they grafted in new skin, new DNA. The result wasn’t entirely human, but it was strong, fit for survival, valiant enough to grow and adapt and rise from the ashes. And by that definition, maybe it was the most human thing of all. 

Lance walks into a coffee shop, bell jangling to acknowledge his arrival. There’s an Unilu standing at the counter, four arms crossed, anticipating his order, but Lance scans the tables, looking for a familiar face. He doesn’t find Shiro waiting for him, but Curtis instead.

Curtis greets him with a smile and a strong handshake. He’s wearing the Garrison uniform, the marks of a Senior Officer, and a few medals of distinction, one of which the entire Atlas crew was given after the war. 

“Shiro got held up in a meeting,” he says, “but he didn’t want you to have to wait for him alone.”

That’s Shiro, always polite and considerate. “A meeting?”

At last year’s anniversary gathering, Shiro had announced his retirement from active duty, something that nearly caused Keith to collapse on the table out of relief. 

Lance was surprised at first, couldn’t imagine Shiro existing outside one mission or another, but it made sense. After Kerberos, getting captured by the Galra, forced to compete in life or death matches that resulted in the loss of his arm, crash-landing on Earth, getting sucked back into space, piloting a sentient, robot lion, suffering from PTSD, dying, having his soul trapped in said-robot lion, getting cloned, having his soul transferred into his clone’s body, going into cardiac arrest on the operating table when his new arm was attached, being revived by the crystal in Allura’s crown, and still going on to fight against Honerva?

Yeah, maybe Shiro deserved a little break. And it seems a break is all it was. 

“He’s taking up an adjunct position in the Spring,” Curtis explains, eyes crinkling with mirth. “We all knew retirement didn’t quite suit him.”

Shiro has never exactly been one for leisure, that’s for sure. The corners of Lance’s mouth quirk up fondly. He knows that with his reputation, Shiro could waltz in and get any position he requested, so the adjunct status must be by choice. 

“Starting back slow?”

Curtis rolls his eyes. “He’s not going on any diplomatic missions for  _ at least another year _ ,” and Lance imagines the words in Shiro’s steady tone. “And  _ no more piloting _ .”

“You don’t believe him?”

Curtis shakes his head. “Do you?” Lance supposes not. “The first few months were good. He stayed with his aunt for a little while, planning the wedding. Spent some quality time in the library. And our honeymoon was beautiful.”

“Sounds like a nice sabbatical,” Lance says. A well-deserved rest, but not so indefinite as retirement.

“You’re right. I just think he feels bad about requesting the time and then...getting  _ bored _ .” Curtis sighs but it’s laced with warmth. “He’s not ready to retire after all, and that’s fine. That’s what I keep telling him. I support his decision no matter what.”

Lance leans back in his chair. “You’re pretty cool, Curtis.” The man stutters, modest and shy, but Lance brushes off any protest. “For real, I’m glad Shiro has you.”

“Me too,” comes Shiro’s voice. Lance looks up and sees the man standing above them, didn’t even notice him approach. He leans down and presses a kiss to Curtis’s temple, chaste but tender, and the routine display affection makes Lance’s pulse flutter. Then he draws Lance up into a hug. 

“Hey, Shiro,” Lance says, taking in his friend’s appearance, his silver hair, stubble, and glasses Lance has never seen him wear before. “Looking good.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m digging the specs. Very hot professor of you.”

Shiro flushes, and maybe Lance shouldn’t be making flirtatious comments in front of Curtis, but he still loves getting a rise out of Shiro once in a while, for old times’ sake. Some outdated jab at Keith or ridiculous comment that has him saying, “Lance,” in that exhausted tone of voice.

Shiro asks what Lance wants to drink and goes to the counter to order despite Lance’s offer to pay. Then, Lance and Curtis sit in awkward silence while the drinks are made because he sometimes runs his mouth without thinking through the repercussions.

When Shiro returns with an iced coffee and tea, he and Curtis swap places, the latter either returning to an urgent meeting at the Garrison or, equally possible, making excuses to escape Lance.

“So,” Shiro says, stirring milk into his tea. “What brings you to my office?”

The joke is surprising enough to make Lance choke on his coffee, and Shiro watches, amused, as he tries to recover. “Oh, man,” Lance says, rubbing a hand under his watery eyes. “I missed you, that’s what.”

The more practical answer is that Veronica forced him to come, left a hundred voicemails on his phone, and even more on Rachel’s until he agreed. But that doesn’t make the sentiment any less true.

“I missed you too.” Shiro smiles. “You’re always welcome to visit.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Lance grumbles, can’t hide the underlying tension from Shiro whose very presence promotes transparency.  _ You guys could come visit me, you know?  _ That’s what he always wants to say when it’s brought up. It goes both ways, this dance of avoidance. Not once have any of them stepped foot on the ranch. And maybe Lance is more to blame, neglecting his phone, deleting his social media, but-

“I’m sensing that I shouldn’t bring up the job offer.”

“Oh, believe me,” he says darkly. “I’m  _ very _ familiar with the offer. She’s a pain in my ass.”

Shiro chuckles. “You’re her baby brother. She loves you.”

Lance is aware. That makes it worse in a way - to disappoint the ones who care. But he deflects, “Curtis tells me you accepted a job offer of your own.” As if Shiro needed the offer, didn’t sit down and pen the entire agreement himself, while Garrison personnel strung streamers and popped bottles of champagne.

But Shiro looks sheepish about it, dipping his nose, glancing up through his frames and long lashes. “He did, did he?”

“Hey, no judgment,” Lance reassures. “Honestly, Shiro, you’ve had a lot of things thrown at you over the years. Whatever choice you get to make for yourself is a good one, and like, the entire galaxy has got your back.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Shiro says this time, eyes focused on the mug in his hand, tea swirling. “Making decisions has never worried me before. I used to be so sure of what I wanted, or at least what I  _ had _ to do. This is just new territory to navigate.”

Lance can empathize. He’s not sure if it’s nice or terrifying to hear someone else say it out loud. Because he was sure too. Sure about enrolling at the Garrison, determined to become a pilot. Single-minded in his desire to return to his family on Earth, and then certain of his place with them after it was all over. He thinks it was easier to pretend he was okay in the early days, when the loss of Allura was still an open wound, jagged edges, sticky with blood. He needed time to heal, and no one argued because the evidence was right in front of them, pooled at his feet. 

Flash forward five years, and the hole has closed up, little by little, but it still aches in a hollow way Lance can’t diagnose, can’t find the proper method to treat. He made a careful plan, the steps to take toward wellness, and he followed them, but over time, the results decreased. Maybe it was a prescription he took long enough for his body to develop a tolerance. That’s possible. 

The logical part of Lance knows that what he needed then isn’t necessarily what he needs now, but there’s just too many variables, too many friends and family members poking and prodding to determine whether the root of the problem comes from inside or out. They make him question himself, and in darker, lonely moments, he finds an infection building under his skin, traveling in septic spread. And that much he can identify by the name of  _ resentment _ .

But to tell Shiro any of that would be the opposite of deflection. “You’ll figure it out,” Lance says instead, and Shiro nods. “Though Keith might have a conniption. Good luck with that.”

Shiro set the mug down and sighs, scrubbing the palm of his human hand down his face. “Keith worries too much.”  _ He worries about you _ . Lance twitches at the memory, Krolia’s serious expression. “There’s reason for that, but he shouldn’t feel obligated to protect me forever.”

“You’re his older brother,” Lance throws Shiro’s own words back at him with a playful grin. “He loves you.”

Shiro groans. “Take a vacation, they said. And I did! I listened.”

“I believe you used the word  _ retirement _ . But tomato, toe-mah-toe, boss man.”

Lance receives a glare for that, though it’s half-hearted. “Enough about me. How are you doing?”

“Fine.” That’s not too generous a word to describe Lance’s well-being. Shiro must be expecting him to elaborate beyond that, but Lance draws a blank, can’t come up with anything else to say. “I’m fine.”

“The ranch?”

“It’s fine.”

“Your family?” Shiro says, pliers out, ready to pull teeth if he has to but, like, gently.

“They’re fine too.”

Shiro hums in thought, then says, “I heard you were cross pollinating the juniberries,” and Lance’s breath stutters.

If Hunk knew about Keith’s feelings, well, there’s a strong case to be made that Shiro knows too. Then again, maybe Shiro heard about the juniberries from Colleen or Veronica or Pidge or, heck, Kinkade. There’s plenty of reasonable options. It doesn’t...it doesn’t  _ have  _ to be from Keith. Keith who was so intoxicated, he probably has no idea what they talked about that night.

He studies Shiro’s face to decipher any hidden meaning, all the while trying to temper his own expression. But Shiro is perceptive, and Lance knows that the moment you underestimate him, the moment you think you’re getting away with something, you’ve already lost. 

The question is, does he dodge? Or confront it head-on?

“You heard right.” He swallows down a long gulp of iced coffee, buying time. “Who told you that, Colleen?”

“Several people have mentioned it,” Shiro says calmly, giving away nothing.  _ Damn him _ . “It sounds complicated. But I admit, botany was never my best subject.” And Lance snorts to think of Shiro, head propped on his chin, dozing through a lecture on photosynthesis, at the same desk, in the same chair Keith or Lance would fall asleep in years later. 

“Me neither. Rachel is good at detailed stuff like that. I’m just there to water and prune.” He pauses, decides to be honest here so Shiro won’t question his hesitation before. “I was against it at first. They were already perfect, you know?”  _ Like her _ . 

Shiro drinks his tea, eyes closed, in contemplative silence while Lance fidgets with his straw. “They were beautiful,” he says, “And they still are, don’t you think?”

“I...yeah?”

“Change doesn’t have to mean disrespecting what you've already got. We find beauty in the old and the new. Just look at Earth.”

And Lance has. He does. He looks around in awe and wonder at a world he no longer knows, and part of him is scared of what that knowledge would mean. When he gazes across the desert at the mishmash of houses that have sprouted there, designs as unique as the aliens that inhabit them, it gets harder to remember what it looked like the night they found Shiro and rode on the back of a speeder across the midnight skyline.

As the juniberries bloom into hues as brilliant as the rainbow, will he forget the one grown on the Atlas and the joy on Allura’s face? Her wide eyes, her soft lips, the smile she gave him as she drew it close.

There’s only so much that one garden, one desert, one mind can hold. When you make room for new memories, how many are lost in the process?

“Lance?”

Ah. He’s been quiet too long. It’s apparent in the slant of Shiro’s brows, the concern they project. 

“You’re right,” he says because Shiro is, yesterday and tomorrow and the day after that. His wisdom is a constant, something cling onto, a buffer against the storm. “I’m just being silly.”

“You’re not. The celebration and preservation of Altean culture is important to you. There’s nothing wrong with that," says Shiro. “But I do think Allura would appreciate them all. Especially coming from you.”

She would. Lance knows she would. He’s just...selfish. It’s the lump forming in his throat, the ice caught inside his straw. “She would,” he agrees, fighting the feeling down, picturing the fields of flowers covered in morning dew. “She always did love sparkly things.”

 

* * *

 

After finishing their drinks, Shiro gives him a tour of the Garrison. There’s nothing that Lance feels like doing less than parading past starry-eyed youths like some mythical hero and peeking around every corner to avoid Commander Iverson, but it’s always been hard to deny Shiro anything. 

He hasn’t been here since they touched down, after the longest battle of his life. Back then, the crowds whooped of victory, but for Lance and his fellow Paladins, it was an incomprehensible loss. That’s when it hit him, that despite his greatest efforts, he would never be able to share his home with her. 

So he ran to the closest, empty hallway, and his knees buckled under him as the weight of sacrifice draped itself over his back, a cloak made of lead. It was hard to breathe, to keep his chest rising when everything else was crumbling down. Without breath, his cries weren’t even loud enough to reach his own ears. In the dark, through his tears, he could see nothing at all. The only proof of existence was pain manifest of grief and  _ shame _ . 

And later, packing his things, holding the photo of their date with trembling fingers. How nervous and hopeful and naive he’d been then. If only he’d known what was to come...he would have stayed in that moment a little longer. Packed a blanket for them to lie under. Hammers and nails to build a home for two under that tree. 

The door slid open, but Lance didn’t turn around. The footsteps were quiet as they approached. A flat palm found a place between the blades of his shoulders. 

It was Keith, Lance knew. Even if he never spoke, even if neither of them ever acknowledged it. After three years of flying together, the warmth of his hand was familiar. The same hand that piloted two lions and wielded two swords. The same hand that picked him up off the ground when they trained, and the hand that held his in the beginning of their journey and the end.

“I have an appointment,” Shiro says suddenly, as they come to a stop in front of the door to his office. Though the Garrison has expanded since Lance was a student, with new laboratories and flight decks, in many ways it looks the same as ever. That includes Shiro’s office, the same one he had before leaving for Kerberos. Lance knows he wouldn’t have requested it, so it must have been some other, sentimental personnel who readied the space, eagerly awaiting his triumphant return. 

“That’s fine. I’ll, uh, just entertain myself out here.”

Shiro looks at him with a measure of uncertainty but promises to find him later before ducking into his office and closing the door. 

It would look more conspicuous to sit against the wall for however long Shiro’s business takes, so Lance wanders, past classrooms and auditoriums, conference halls and offices, until he hears a familiar voice coming from down the hall. 

“As you can observe, GGO 121418 has experienced a drastic drop in temperature over the last decade. Can anyone tell me what that means?”

Lance leans into the doorway of a classroom filled with forty-odd students who don’t look much older than Lance was when he first enrolled at the Garrison. At the front of the room, facing a holographic star map stands Pidge, or well, Professor Holt in this setting, Lance thinks with a jolt. She dons a white lab coat, and her hair is tied back, long enough now to be bundled with a green scrunchie. 

A boy sitting a few rows away raises his hand, and Lance recognizes that arm, the back of his head, the voice that says, “It’s expanding.”

“That’s correct.”

“ _ Nice _ ,” Lance says quietly, pumping his fist, but it must come out louder than he intends because the boy looks back and recognizes him too.

“ _ Uncle Lance _ ?”

Lance isn’t prepared for the horror that is forty heads swiveling around on their necks at once, eighty eyeballs making sharp contact with his person within the span of a second. 

Pidge turns around too, more slowly than the others, lips carving a wry smirk across her face. She already knew he was visiting, but Lance embarrassing himself in front of a bunch of teenagers is an added, unforeseen bonus.

“Senior Officer McClain,” she says, “can you tell me what quadrant GGO 121418 is in?”

“Uhhh,” Lance says dumbly, mind grasping at empty air, “space?”

The rooms titters, hands pressed over giggling mouths, and Lance feels his face burn. He thought his years of academic humiliation were long behind him.  _ Screw you, Pidge. I’m never coming back. _

“All right, all right,” says Pidge, turning off the hologram and walking to the back of the room, toward Lance. “Pack your books, cadets. Class is dismissed.”

Every student stands at once, and the room erupts into the sound of screeching chairs and excited voices. Pidge grabs his sleeve, and Lance allows himself to be dragged off before they can be attacked. 

They walk at a brisk pace, down the hall and a flight of stairs before Pidge pulls him into a robotics lab and locks the door behind them. Lance can already hear sets of feet pounding down steps, kids shuffling outside the door.

“Thought they’d try my office first,” Pidge mutters to herself. “Oh well.”

“This is why I don’t visit the Garrison!” Lance says, flopping into a chair. “They looked like they wanted my blood.”

“They’re just excited to see a former Paladin of Voltron.” Lance gives her a pointed look that she waves away. “I’m always here. The novelty has worn off.”

“Shiro knew I couldn’t be trusted by myself,” he laments as the doorknob starts to jiggle from the outside. “I should have just texted Veronica.”

“Relax, you big baby. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Pidge swats him on the shoulder, unperturbed. “While you’re here, I can finally show you our latest model.”

Lance takes in their surroundings, the tools lying about, papers strewn with abandon, empty coffee mugs resting upon random objects. This is  _ her  _ lab, he realizes belatedly. A space all to herself. Lance is proud of Pidge, in all her harebrained genius glory, but he also wonders how it compares to an entire castle of alien technology at her disposal.

“Presenting, in the synthetic flesh,” Pidge announces, grasping a sheet that rests over a figure that stands only a few inches shorter than her, “Chip 4.0!”

When the robot is uncovered, Lance has to do a double take. He’s seen pictures that she’s sent, various models over the years, but they didn’t do the real thing justice. This small android has skin that looks like real skin, brown hair that looks like it could be sprouting from a real scalp, and eyes that behind its glasses look almost sentient. 

“What do you think?”

Lance stands up and reaches out a finger to poke at Chip’s cheek. It’s texture is spongier than he expected. “Freaky!”

“Hey, don’t call him names.”

“What? No name-calling here,” he says, taking a couple of totally brave paces in the opposite direction. “I’m super impressed, Pidge. But you should already know that humanoid AI seriously weirds me out." Robot  _lions_ , Lance could handle. "Especially looking so, you know. Real.”

She rolls her eyes. “He  _ is _ real.” But that doesn’t make Lance feel any more at ease. 

He watches as she boots up Chip 4.0, walks him through some basic commands and conversational prompts, powers him down when she finds a small bug and pulls off his panel in the back to fiddle around with wires. She plugs the robot boy into her laptop and types at the keyboard, code that Lance could never hope to translate. He watches her work and imagines Hunk beside her, tinkering, arguing over double-triple-quadruple modulation. Lance wonders if she ever finds herself talking to him out of habit, so used to running experiments together. If she gets sad when she realizes Hunk isn’t there, can’t respond. 

“Go peek and see if they’re still out there,” Pidge says, motioning to the door. Lance carefully peers through the blinds hanging over the glass window. The hall looks relatively empty, aside from a Junior Officer walking by, reading something from a clipboard. 

“I think the coast is clear.”

“I’m going to be here for a little while longer,” she tells him. “But go find Shiro, and we can grab lunch somewhere. His treat.” She winks, but Shiro already paid for Lance’s coffee earlier.  _ My treat _ , he thinks. It’s the least he can give them.

Shiro’s door is still shut when Lance arrives, so he knocks timidly and waits to hear Shiro say, “Come in.”

He’s sitting behind his desk when Lance enters. The overhead lights are off, but the curtains are open, and soft sunlight pours in, casting Shiro’s hair in amber glow, the Garrison’s golden son. His back is toward Lance and he holds a tablet in front of his face.

“Keith, hang on a second,” Shiro says, and Lance freezes in place. He can see now, Shiro is on a video call, and the person on the other end of the call is Keith, his face filling the screen. 

“Sorry, I didn’t-” he panics, wanting to back out slowly, but his legs won’t cooperate. “I, uh-"

“Oh, Lance,” says Shiro, only now noticing who’s at the door. “I was just talking with Keith. Say hello.”

He turns around in the swivel chair, facing Lance, and extends the tablet screen-out as Lance’s body shuts down all motor function. 

It’s not like he never wants to see Keith again. That’s not it. Keith is his friend, one of the most important people in Lance’s life. He can’t avoid him forever, but like, he would appreciate the opportunity to prepare first! Fate, as it seems, has other plans, and Lance is thrust into the webcam’s line of sight whether he’s ready or not. 

They just stare at each other for a while. Keith’s hair is pulled back in a bun, and he looks a little misty, fresh from a workout or maybe a mission, but he wears the same surprise as Lance. 

“Hi, Lance,” Keith finally greets him with an awkward wave that sends a pang of affection hurtling through Lance’s chest at blistering speed, reverberating through him, leaving him paralyzed.

Even if he wanted to speak, his vocal chords are immobilized as the rest of him. Not even his eyelids will move from their wide-open state. 

“Lance?” Keith says again. And now, out of his periphery, Lance can see Shiro giving him a look.  _ Are you okay? _   “Can...can you not hear me?”

The room is silent, but Lance’s brain is banging pots and pans, yelling impossibly loud.  _ Move! Say something! _

“We’re passing through an asteroid belt. The connection must be bad.” Keith frowns. “I’ll try to call back later.” And his image disappears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all who continue to read and for your patience while lance stews in his thoughts and feelings. we're finally getting into the bulk of the story, and more exciting things are on the way~

On New Altea, the sun rises in the West and sets in the East.

Lance might not be a super genius like Pidge or Hunk, but he’s spent his whole life studying space - it was kind of his thing, along with marksmanship, and maybe flying too, depending on whom with he was being compared.

The point is, he knows that the difference has nothing to do with the sun itself. Stars shift, but slowly and over distances so far away, by the time their light reaches your eyes, the movement can’t be easily perceived. The reason for this sunrise and sunset comes from within.

New Altea rotates clockwise, on its axis, akin to that of Venus, and opposite Lance’s own place of origin, his home. On Earth, they call it retrograde. A backwards flow in time and motion.

And that’s how Lance feels whenever he’s here, like he’s stepping back 10,000 years, to a place that vanished long before he even came into existence. Treading into Allura’s memories and the things she described to him. Long grasses and juniberries, vibrant pinks and greens, and skies the color of ocean waves on white sand. Mountain ranges stretching into the distance, as far as the eye can see.

For a civilization so advanced, there’s something ancient in the architecture and the way the edges of landscape are always draped in a thin veil of fog. And if Lance feels like he’s stepping back into another age, he wonders what it must be like for Coran, walking every day into a waking dream, the lone survivor of a planet’s death and resurrection.

The sun rises in the West. Lance doesn’t consider himself to be someone gifted with a particularly good sense of direction. He can’t step off a bus in an unfamiliar town, plant his foot in the ground, raise a finger to the air, and declare it True North. But Lance does know that on New Altea, in the early morning quintants, a faraway star ascends behind Allura’s statue. And at a very certain time, at a very certain distance, it appears in the skyline directly behind her head, surrounding her visage in a brilliant halo.

Lance isn’t stupid. He knows not to stare into the sun. He knows, but he does it anyway, until his eyes water, and the ring around her face is burned behind his eyelids.

“How are things going out here?”

Now, Lance grips the handle of a broom and uses it to sweep up leaves and debris at the foot of the statue. Someone else must maintain it during the rest of the year - Coran probably - but when the anniversary arrives, every year, there’s always a little cleaning to be done.

Lance catches a ride in earlier than the others, and he’s more than happy to lend a hand, but he also thinks Coran must leave it for Lance on purpose, giving him time with his thoughts and with her.

“Almost done,” Lance tells Coran, pausing to rest his chin on the butt of the broom. “Do you need any help setting up?”

“All taken care of, my boy,” says Coran, clapping his hands together. “But Hunk should be arriving shortly. I’m sure he would appreciate your assistance in the kitchen.” Lance nods, and Coran bounds away, no less energetic now than he was back then. For a man who has seen so much tragedy, he never seems to run short on enthusiasm..

Lance sits down at the platform, allowing the broom to clatter against the stone. He leans back, eyes closed, and breathes in the grassy air.

“You know,” he says aloud, “they say it gets easier, but I’m still not sure if I believe them.”

No one responds. He didn’t expect-

Lance knows she’s out there, beyond the stars, on some cosmic, astral plane, a place he may never be able to see. Somewhere unreachable but no less real. He talks to her sometimes because he hopes she might be able to hear, even if it’s only once out of a hundred times.

“I miss you,” is what he always tells her, and it will always hold true, in varying measure.

There are mornings when he wakes up thinking he’s still on the castleship, when the sound of voices coming from downstairs or the rooster’s crow from a distance transports him, disoriented, somewhere between now and then and before it all.  And for a minute, he’s sad to be home, to be away from his friends and from her, and then he’s sad for feeling that way at all.

There are other times where he’ll spot something at the market, a trinket she might have liked, and the nostalgia passes over him, a glancing blow, bittersweet but without harm.

And then, there are days where he stands barefoot on the bathroom tile, staring into the mirror, fingers pressed to the blue spots on his cheeks, the indelible marks she left, insurance that he would never forget. He allows himself to cry, and he allows himself to remember her with fondness. He even allows himself, despite the guilt, to wonder why she put them there at all.

These moments - fond or sad, passing or lasting - come and go. But their catalyst, the act of missing her, will never change.

“After all this time, I can’t believe talking to you still makes me nervous,” Lance says, a feeble attempt at humor. “I never know the right thing to say, but I guess that’s never stopped me from saying it anyway.”

He tries to imagine her eyeroll, her laugh, her caress. Three different reactions from different eras of their friendship, all Allura.

“I hope that wherever you are, you’re with family, and that you’re happy. You...you know how much your happiness has always meant to me. Things here haven’t changed much. We’ve all gone our separate ways, but we always come back together, and that’s because of you.”

There are some years Lance would never see his friends if not for this arrangement they made, after the war was over, Lance is grateful for it, even if he wishes it were under different circumstances,

“Shiro got married in the fall. Hunk is serving up intergalactic peace and order. Pidge continues to corrupt the youths of the next generation. And Keith is-” Leading the Blade of Marmora into a new age. Aiding refugees. Confessing to age-old crushes, damn the consequences. “Still Keith.”

The sound of engine thrusters catches Lance’s attention, and he looks up, expecting to see Hunk’s cruiser. Instead, he finds a much smaller vessel executing a perfect landing on a nearby patch of grass, painted in Marmoran black and purple. The hatch opens, and a figure hops out, satchel slung over one shoulder.

He’s early. Lance isn’t prepared for this, assumed he’d have the buffer of his friends for when they saw each other again, but Keith continues to surprise. He crosses the expanse between them, long ponytail swinging in the breeze, the picture of a legendary hero returned from war, and he carries long-stemmed bouquet of pastel pinks.  Lance feels his breath stutter and scrambles to stand, dropping the broom twice in the process.

Keith’s early, and to every aspect of their long and winding relationship, Lance feels terribly late.

“Hi,” Keith says, standing in front of Lance with a timid smile. The years fit him nicely, in a way they haven’t Lance. He’s taller, a little broader, more confident now in his stance and attitude than he’d ever been as a paladin.

“Hey,” Lance says back, glancing down at his feet, feeling shy and dumb because it’s Keith, and of his grace and ability, Lance has always refused to be intimidated. Loudly. “You’re early.”

Keith nods. “We wrapped up a mission a little sooner than expected, so I came straight from there.” And yeah, Keith is still dressed in his uniform, but he’s never had much of a wardrobe to begin with. “Might have to cut out early too. The next mission is kind of time sensitive.”

“Oh. That’s...okay. I’m glad you were able to make it at all.”

“Of course,” Keith says, voice low and serious. “I would never miss this.”

On New Altea, the sun rises in the West and sets in the East. And now, from its position directly overhead, it catches Keith’s lashes -  _have they always been that long? -_ and paints shadowy lines down his cheeks.

Keith sets the bundle of flowers at the base of Allura’s statue, next to the juniberries Lance brought from home. There’s something at the stem that catches his eye, a wooden band with a triangle of crystal embedded at the top. The replica of a crown Lance had nearly forgotten.

“What is this?”

“Ah,” says Keith, sliding the band off the bouquet and handing it to him. It’s the size of a wrist and the width of a finger. The wood is smooth, rounded, and Lance spins it around, brushing over the the crystal that seems to light up from the inside. “I made that.”

“ _You_ made this?”

“I carved it, but the gem I picked up from a planet in the Kyzil System.” Lance holds it up to one eye and closes the other, squinting. He must be making a face because Keith snorts. “I don’t know how it works either. They told me it would glow for a hundred years. Ezor thought they were just trying to swindle me.”

“You _made_ this.”

“Shiro kept telling me I needed a hobby,” Keith grudges, and Lance can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “I was already good with knives so.”

“So you’re a carpenter now.”

“It’s just a hobby.”

“And a jeweler too. A mullet of many talents.”

Where that nickname might have once sparked a fight, now it’s answered by a sigh. Keith grew out the hairdo long ago, and maybe he grew out of Lance’s taunts as well.

“You can keep it,” Keith says. “If you want.”

That’s...that’s too much. Lance shakes his head, sets the bracelet down at Allura’s feet, wood to stone. “No, you made it for her. She would love it.”

“You think so?”

“I do,” Lance affirms and looks back at his face, cheeks rounded into a gentle smile, the hopeful look in his eye. “You’ve gotten soft, Keith.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He reaches out to prod at Keith’s shoulder, which isn’t soft at all, but the observation wasn’t really physical. “Yup,” Lance says. “Like a marshmallow.”

 

* * *

 

He floats through dinner prep, head in the clouds, legs wading clumsily through a sea of distraction. Hunk almost kicks him out of the kitchen after he spills most of the pasta he’s draining onto the floor.

“Maybe you should go sit down,” says Hunk, polite in his dismissal, but Lance refuses.

“No, I want to help! I’ll be careful.”

Hunk gives in, like he always does, but he won’t let Lance handle anything else boiling or sharp, relegating him to dishwasher to minimize the damage. That’s fair. And if Lance breaks a fancy Altean plate and hides the evidence in the trash, wrapped in a fancy dish towel, who’s to say?

Pidge dips in and out, stealing cookies, and avoiding Hunk’s hands that bat her away. Coran helps to get everything plated and carted off to the dinner table. After it’s all done, Lance volunteers to stay behind and clean to apologize for his earlier mess. As he soaps and scrubs and rinses, his mind slowly declutters - head cracked opened, organized, and screwed on right.

Or at least that’s what he thinks, until he walks outside and sees Keith leaning against against a wall, a flute of some gold-tinted liquid in hand. Before Lance can process his own movements, he’s approached Keith, snatched the glass out of his grasp, and drained it into a potted plan.

The look Keith gives him is open-mouthed, eyebrows pinched, incredulous. “O...kay?” he says, in a way that sounds more like he’s asking _What the hell is wrong with you?_ “I’m just...going to go find Shiro.”

He walks away, and Lance feels his own jaw hanging wide, dignity sliding low, down his spine.

“Was that supposed to be you ignoring it?” Hunk asks because of course he and Pidge are standing right there. His arms are crossed in disapproval. “Or playing it cool.”

“I think that was _having a nervous breakdown_ ,” says Pidge, and yep, that’s Lance’s dignity, right on the floor.

“Shut up! I panicked!” he cries, voice shrill even to his own ears.

“Clearly.”

“Wait, do you _know_?” he asks, blood pooling in his cheeks. He turns to Hunk. “Does she know?” And Hunk gives an unhelpful shrug.

“I know you’re a weirdo,” Pidge says, grinding Lance’s dignity under her foot now. Rest In Peace. “But that’s nothing new.”

“Tell them I’m sick,” Lance begs. “And that it’s contagious. And that I’m confined to my quarters until further notice.”

“I don’t think your problem is communicable,” Pidge chuckles, and Lance has half a mind to wrestle her to the ground where she stands. “On the bright side, Keith has put up with plenty of your nonsense over the years. He must be used to it by now.”

“Nothing has changed,” Hunk reassures him, but he’s wrong. _Lance_ has changed. Just by knowing.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. But if Keith gets drunk, _you_ get to babysit this time.”

Keith doesn’t get drunk. As it turns out, there’s no alcohol at the table at all. The beverage they drink has the color and fizz of champagne, but it’s sweet, some kind of tea from an alien berry that hasn’t been fermented. Keith drinks a whole glass in one go, maintaining eye contact with Lance the entire time, a silent challenge in his eye. And Lance answers by pouring him another glass, all the way up to the brim. Pidge watches their interactions in rapt fascination, head propped between a finger and thumb, while the others respectfully ignore them.

Dinner passes by in reminiscence, exchanging stories about Allura, things Lance has heard before, some that he was present to experience, and others that don’t involve him at all. They all had strong bonds with her, Lance knows. It’s wrong of him to pretend he has some kind of monopoly on grief. They all hurt and they all love and they all miss. That’s why they’re together.

During dessert, conversation moves into more current topics. Pidge is taking a break from robotics to help Captain Holt and Slav with the development of wormhole technology that doesn’t require the use of Altean alchemy. Coran is opening a larger school, as the planet takes in displaced refugees and more Altean children are born each year, the need becoming apparent. And Shiro is going back to the Garrison, something that has Keith clenching his fork so tightly, it begins to bend.

“Ease up, Samurai,” Lance says, placing a hand over Keith’s fist until it loosens. Keith, the strong lines of him made fuzzy in the candle glow, spares him a pained smile before launching a full scale assault of questions upon Shiro.

Lance listens, unaware that his fingers still linger on Keith’s until he catches a meaningful glance from Hunk and abruptly pulls away. He hopes Keith is too distracted to notice.

“You don’t have to worry,” Shiro says, “I won’t be going back into the field yet.”

“ _Yet_.”

“There’s a lot of good that the Garrison can provide to a healing universe. I want to help, but even then, it will only be as a diplomat. I’m ready for that much.”

“Oh, like foreign diplomats are never in danger,” Keith shoots back. “You have a reputation across the universe, Shiro.”

“All the more reason I should be doing my part.” Shiro nods, as if Keith has made a point in his favor.

“All the more targets you’ll have on your back.”

“Jeez, Keith,” Pidge remarks, chair tipped back on two legs. “When did you become such a mother hen?”

“Hey, he’s allowed to be concerned,” Lance finds himself saying, and maybe it’s not like him to be coming to Keith’s defense, especially when Keith is arguably overreacting.

It’s just, this is the third time Keith’s anxiety has come up around Lance in the past few months. First with Krolia, then Shiro, and now, Shiro again. The recurrence is no coincidence. On the outside, Keith can appear so comfortable and sure, no longer the impulsive runaway of his teenage years. Lance doesn’t know the extent of the internal damage, beyond what he can see, but whatever it is, whatever battle Keith wages within, it doesn’t deserve ridicule.

A beeping noise cuts through the tension, and Keith pulls his communicator out of his pocket. He reads something that makes him frown.

“I have to go,” Keith says, already pushing up out of his chair. “Sorry. Evacuation mission. All hands on deck.”

“I can send a message to Matt,” Pidge offers without hesitation. “He has Rebel contacts who might be able to assist.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, “we could use all the help we can get.”

Shiro opens his mouth, probably to make an offer of his own, but it shrivels back at the terrible glare Keith shoots his way.

“I can come with.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of thing you say because it shows you care, not because you expect anyone to take you up on it. But when the words leave Lance’s mouth, Keith whips around at lightning speed.

“Really?”

“Uh.” And Lance feels everyone’s eyes on him. He’s already visited Hunk in space, Shiro and Pidge on Earth, Coran on New Altea. This was bound to happen eventually. “Yeah, why not.”

Keith still seems unsure. “How soon can you leave?”

Speaking physically, it’s not like Lance has much to pack. And emotionally? There’s no way to to _un_ pack that can of worms.

Recklessly, he accepts the hand that Keith extends and the promise things of unknown.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count has been upped by one because i'm going to need it. lol i hope this update finds all of you well.

It isn’t until they leave New Altea’s atmosphere that Lance begins to realize the magnitude of what he’s gotten himself into.

He hasn’t flown in a craft this small since he was a paladin, and it’s jarring - the force of gravity as they climb, the thrumming noise of the engine, the shake and shudder of its hull, even piloted by Keith’s skillful hands.

He grips the back of Keith’s headrest until his knuckles go white, blood rushing from them to fuel the unsteady rhythm of his heart. When they breach the exosphere, things finally begin to even out, and Lance realizes he’s been holding his breath for who knows how long.

They go on like that for a little bit, gliding through the stars, small and insignificant, like a water strider over a pond, barely enough weight to leave a ripple.

Lance, still feeling a bit woozy, finds his right hand straying to Keith’s shoulder, feels it stiffen in surprise, but Keith doesn’t turn around.

“So,” he starts, aiming for casual, trying to control his breathing, “a one-seater, huh?”

That’s when Keith cranes his neck, studies Lance’s face. Whatever he finds there must not be good. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Who me? Never better.” He lets out a noise too weak to be a chuckle, ends up sounding more like a two-pack-a-day wheeze.

“Lance.” Keith frowns, brows lowered in disbelief. He grabs the hand resting on his shoulder.  

“Whoa,” Lance warns, as Keith’s fingers slide up his wrist, checking his pulse. “K-keep your eyes on the space road, partner.”

“ _Lance_.”

“Hands on the wheel while the car is in motion.”

Keith huffs, and Lance feels the warmth of it on his palm. “You’re space sick.”

“I am not!” Lance exclaims, offended, even though Keith is right. He’s nauseated in a way he hasn’t been since...he doesn’t remember. Elementary school, maybe, riding home on the bus. The one particular bump near the second stop that made his guts swirl.

At the Garrison, they trained for this. Lance always prided himself in a strong continence, as flight simulators had Hunk and other peers bent over, heads between legs, hands clamped over faces.

“You just need some time to acclimate,” Keith says, perhaps more patient than Lance deserves. “See the panel to your left? There’s a pull-out bench. You should sit down, get your bearings.”

_Gladly_ , Lance thinks, stumbling back, out of Keith’s grasp. He fumbles with the panel until the bench slides out and sits down with enough force to bruise against the hard metal. He rests his head in his hands and breathes and pretends not to notice Keith checking on him every few minutes.

Eventually, the nausea subsides. Their momentum becomes a constant. Lance’s body adapts, as it always has, whether by choice or force. 

It's something that's always frightened him - that when the world evolves, you change with it. When events happen that are out of your hands, you might think that the only thing you have control over is yourself, all the while, your cells alter, molded by circumstance. Sometimes, the modifications for survival are made for you, and will has nothing to do with it. 

“How much longer until we get there?” Lance asks to distract himself.

“Must be feeling better if you’re complaining,” Keith says, and he doesn’t have to turn around for Lance to know he’s grinning, hears the teasing lilt in his voice. “We should convene with the rest of the crew in six Earth hours.”

And yep, Lance definitely didn’t think this one through.

“Try to get some sleep,” Keith suggests. “It’s going to be hectic once we get down there.”

“I’m not really tired,” Lance sighs, kicking the bench with the back of his heel.

Even though it’s sure to be nearing midnight at home, by the internal clock Lance’s body is attuned to, he hasn’t been sleeping well these days. It’s probably why he finds himself nodding off in strange places - in the barn, at the diner table, behind the wheel of the tractor. When he wakes, it’s almost always to Nadia or Rachel’s scolding.

Rest, Lance catches in minutes, not hours. They engrave themselves under his eyes and down the slim slope of his jaw.

He grabs his pack from the floor and sets it down at the end of the bench to use as a pillow, fluffing until the contents lay flat, before stretching out his legs.

“You shouldn’t lie down,” Keith says, not admonishing, just matter of fact. “Could run into some turbulence.”

Lance feel his whole body give a familiar twitch of belligerence. “Do _you_ sleep sitting straight up on a metal slab?”

“I thought you weren’t tired,” Keith observes, to which Lance answers with a noise of affront, high and nasal. Keith isn’t phased. “At least strap in.”

Lance doesn’t spare the seatbelt more than a glance. He folds his arms behind his neck, crosses his legs at the ankle, a silent declaration.

There was a time that Lance would have followed Keith into certain death - still would, if the situation arose. He has faith in Keith’s decisions, his instincts, and it’s a trust goes both ways. If Lance ever raises a concern, he knows Keith would listen.

But this isn’t Voltron. They aren’t Paladins anymore, flying into danger in the pursuit of some noble goal. This is a relief mission, an evacuation. Lance is crowd control, and it’s not out of some spiritual obligation; he’s just doing a favor. Here, Keith is his friend, not his leader, and Lance is his own person. He doesn’t have to follow anyone’s orders.

Suddenly, the craft gives a violent lurch to the right, and Lance, without warning, rolls right off the bench, barely able to get his limbs out under him, smacking his forehead off the floor.

He flails, and squawks, and stands with fists clenched at his sides. “You did that on purpose!”

Keith hasn’t looked back at all, feigning innocence, but his shoulders are shaking. As Lance rounds in on the pilot’s chair, he sees Keith’s body vibrating with silent laughter.

“You ass!” he yells, the word punctuated with a not-so-gentle punch to Keith’s shoulder, and that’s when the air begins to escape Keith’s lungs in _giggles_ that he tries in vain to muffle with his fingers.

Lance is so stunned by it, the irrepressible amusement, the tears pooling at the corner of Keith’s eyes, he almost forgets his anger.

“Is that what the next six hours are going to be? Replaying Lance and Keith’s greatest hits?” he asks, but it doesn’t sound as threatening as he was aiming for. “Huh? You wanna fight?”

Keith shrugs, still smiling, and Lance thinks, this is what it was like back then. Antagonizing each other, poking and prodding, stretching the rubber band until it snapped. This is how they were, and now, Lance knows, this is what Keith liked. Lance’s baby face, round cheeks and sharp chin. Calling him names. Trading insults, dumb challenges, and at the root of it all, the attention. After drifting through the desert for a year, alone, Keith probably didn’t know what to do with all of it.

But they aren’t the same boys they were back then. Lance is taller, older, made world-weary, and Keith grew out of him long ago. That’s why he said it was no big deal. This is nostalgia, nothing more, and if Keith wants a trip down memory lane, Lance supposes he can indulge.

“Sorry,” says Keith, lips pursed to keep them from curving upward. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lance’s physical comedy, a classic.”

There’s probably a bump already starting to bloom from his skull because Keith asks, “Is your head okay?”

It will be, Lance thinks. Once the throbbing stops.

“If you really want to lie down, I’ll try to keep it steady,” Keith offers, having the decency to look a little guilty.

But Lance was telling the truth before. He isn’t tired. “What about you? How long have you been up?” Keith’s eyes dart away in avoidance. “ _Keith_.”

He flew here straight from another mission, right? How long was that flight? And how long did the mission take? When was the last time he slept?

“Why, do you want to fly?”

Lance balks. The last thing he piloted was the Red lion, five years ago, and he doesn’t really want to find out if he’s still got it while they’re hundreds of thousands of miles from home. “Absolutely not.”

“Then don’t worry about it. I’ve got these to keep me awake.” Keith reaches into a dashboard compartment and pulls out a bottle of what must be caffeine pills. His reassurance has the opposite of its intended effect because now Lance _is_ worried.  

“Are those, like, standard-issue at the Blade?” He wrinkles his nose. “I gotta say, Keith, things were pretty stressful when we were at war, but we still _slept_.”

“We use them sparingly,” Keith drawls, shaking a tablet out and pressing it to his tongue where Lance curiously watches it dissolve. “Besides, we’ll both have a chance to nap when we dock with the cruiser.”

Lance stares at him for a moment then shakes his head. Maybe, even as they grow and change, some habits never die. For Keith, the constant seems to be a disturbing lack of concern for his own safety.

With nothing else to do for the next few hours, he slumps down onto Keith’s armrest. It’s wide enough for Lance to rest most of his rear, and he’s a little too conscious of the point where his hip presses against Keith’s bicep.

“So, give me a briefing," he says. "What should I be prepared for?”

Keith pulls up an image on his dash. It’s a planet in the Hephas Cluster, a sphere of brown, craggy rock and little else. “This is Erutte. We picked up a distress signal from them a few days ago, but they’ve been on the Blade’s radar for a while.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well. They have a high concentration of volcanoes.”

That’s...not what Lance was expecting. “Volcanoes?”

“That’s the closest Earth equivalent, yeah,” says Keith. “We’ve been trying to get them to evacuate for months now. The last wide-scale eruption took place two hundred years ago, but it wiped out over half the population.”

_Jesus_. A simple evacuation mission. Right. What exactly has Lance agreed to?

“Their home is very sacred to them,” Keith continues. “Understandably. They wanted to delay relocation as long as possible. And they have a prophet.”

“A prophet.”

Keith nods. “He gave us a time table, and it turned out to be accurate. From the moment we touch down, we should have forty-eight hours to load and extract the population before…” he motions to indicate, _you know_ , and Lance feels his stomach curl and condense into a weighty stone.

“I get it,” Lance says shortly. “Next time, remind me to ask for a briefing _before_ I volunteer to race an active volcano.”

“Next time?” Keith asks, soft and innocent, and...yeah. That is what Lance just said. Slip of the tongue. _Let’s move on before it can stick._

“So you like working with the Blade of Marmora?”

“I do,” Keith says, biting at his lip. “It’s not like it was back then, not every Galra for themselves. We don’t sacrifice soldiers for the good of the cause. Our mission is to offer relief to those who were harmed or enslaved by the Galra, in whatever way we can.”

Lance smiles, looking at Keith’s face, so close, the determination he sees there. He resists the sudden urge to ruffle his hair. “Sounds rewarding.”

“It is.”

Sometimes, Lance thinks back to his first impression of Keith, the rivalry he imagined between them. The belief that Keith was a showoff, someone who thought himself better than the Garrison, better than Lance. That idea is laughable now, as he watches Keith commit himself to a life of humanitarian missions without the promise of any prize or recognition. He’s noble and selfless, and with all he has going on, he still finds time to worry after his friends.

What might have happened, if Lance had known that all along?

“How’s the ranch?” Keith asks, and Lance feels the smile slide off his face, back down into his heart, tucked away with the what ifs and what could have beens.

“It’s really nothing exciting, man,” and the words come out in wincing self-deprecation. “You don’t have to pretend to be interested. I won’t be offended.”

Keith touches the dash, and the image of Erutte fades away. His hand lingers there in the air before coming to settle over Lance’s arm, the one between them. “I’m not pretending.”

“It’s fine-”

“I’m not,” Keith insists, fingers harsh, squeezing. “You’re providing resources necessary for survival to a planet that was ravaged by Galra occupation, made all the more vital with the influx of alien refugees. It’s important work, Lance. Don’t belittle yourself.”

Growing up, when Lance wasn’t running through fields or looking up at the sky, he staked claim to the sea. On rafts and boogie boards, he conquered the waves and made them his own. Even now, he remembers the sensation, his small body rising and falling between the swells, battered back and forth. He knows what it feels like to get the wind knocked out of you, to wash up on shore, breathless, sand-burned skin, salt clinging to your lungs.

This is. Not unlike that.

“Do you…” Lance starts, choking on a damn ocean, the burbling foam of a memory, “ever talk to Veronica?”

Keith eases his grip, but he doesn’t let go or turn away. “Sometimes,” he says.

“About me?”

“What else would we talk about?”

And of all the people Lance could think of, running interference with Veronica, defending his life choices, insisting that he wasn’t wasting his time...Keith wasn’t anywhere on the list, when in fact, he should have been at the top. Lance really is that clueless.

“Maybe you guys are friends now? I don’t know,” Lance says. That conjures another memory, a dinner date with Allura and his family, and Veronica’s interest in Keith. She said she was joking but-

Keith hums, letting go of Lance’s arm to scratch at his neck. “We’re...friendly, but I’m not usually the one she calls to talk to.” And at Lance’s questioning look, he says, “You know she and Acxa are dating, right?”

Lance feels his eyes bug out of his head. 

“Okay, so you didn’t know,” Keith quickly deduces. “Right. Well. I’m not the one who told you then.”

Lance holds up a hand, and sucks in a long breath through his nose. “Let’s rewind.”

“Let’s not.”

“Your ninja friend, Lotor’s former General, someone who tried to kill us on multiple occasions, and my sister. Are dating,” he says slowly, and waits for Keith to explain himself. “Dating!”

“Maybe dating isn’t the right word,” Keith hedges, turning his head. _Look back, you coward_. Lance is dangerously close to punching him again. “They talk every week and send each other presents sometimes. It’s a long distance thing. I don’t know much else. Acxa isn’t really a sharer.”

It says something that two people who once hinted at romantic attraction to Keith, jokes or not, are now involved with each other. Lance just doesn’t know _what_.

“Great,” he says. “Super. This won’t be awkward at all.”

“Just act like you don’t know.” But Lance is already doing enough of that. Another ignored bombshell might just trigger an explosion, and with it, his untimely demise.

“Now, I’m going to have to grill Acxa _and_ save refugees," he laments.

“Please do not grill Acxa. She carries half a dozen knives, and I won’t be able to save you.”

Sounds like someone else Lance knows. “Why would anyone carry six knives? She only has two hands.”

And when Keith jerks the steering wheel and rattles the cabin again, this time, Lance holds on tight.


End file.
